


Four Doors

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A help_haiti fic for nakedwesley, based on the idea of 'four doors.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Doors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nakedwesley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakedwesley/gifts).



> I can't say enough thank yous to kisa_hawklin who was a fantastic beta for me here, and helped to make the whole thing work a lot better than it originally did!

**One**  

It wasn’t that John didn’t know. 

It was just that he didn’t really get what it was going to be like until he’s standing there, dressed down in jeans and a worn shirt, DVD in hand, staring at a Rodney who looks like _that._ He’s braced in his own doorway, arms and broad shoulders spanning the frame like he’s worried John might push right past him into the room behind, breathing a little too quick, full of unspent energy. 

John looks at him and thinks _oh_ , thinks _oh god_ because it’s obvious what he’s interrupted. 

Rodney’s eyes are dark and glazed over slightly, flicking distractedly between the slant of John in the corridor and the soft light of his quarters, steady bronze-gold candlelight and the scent of flame and wax seeping out around him into the corridor between them. There’s a flush spread high over the arches of his cheeks and his mouth is smudged soft red. John doesn’t have to step back to note the tangle of Rodney’s fly, not-quite buttoned in his haste, the wrinkles of his shirt, the awkward hang of the fabric where the shoulder seams are twisted up, distorted. 

John doesn’t say anything, struck a little dumb at the way Rodney looks; the sweat and arousal John can smell when he breathes in. “Hi?” Rodney says to John’s silence, a breathless half-question. 

John _wants,_ wrenching and wretched as ever, and so badly he almost takes a step forward to put bring himself closer, thinks about reaching out to trace the pink of Rodney’s lower lip. His fingers tingle with the idea of it, but he catches himself like he always does, shifts uneasily instead, palms the DVD from one hand to the other. 

“Uh, it’s Wednesday,” he says eventually, one hand rubbing self-consciously over the back of his neck, the other holding up the plastic case. 

The light oozing out around the doorframe catches on the cover, reflects the glow of the candles back at Rodney. 

“Oh,” Rodney says, eyes widening, rocking up onto his toes, “right, yes.” He licks over his lips, eyes tracking back over his shoulder without ever meeting John’s. He shifts awkwardly in the doorway, tapping his fingers restlessly against the doorframe. “I forgot all about it. Can we – maybe another time? It’s just that I’m kinda... “ Rodney trails off, looking up at John through his lashes, mischievous and embarrassed and maybe a little thrilled, proud at being caught like this. “Well, you know,” he finishes, gesturing loosely with one hand in the direction of his bedroom. 

On cue, Jennifer’s voice drifts out into the corridor, as golden and inviting as the color the candles turn the walls, promising in the darkness. “Rodney?” 

“Look, I gotta...” Rodney murmurs, already turning away, eyes gone darker still, and John barely has time to nod, numbly, to rasp, “Uh, yeah, okay,” before the door hisses closed and he’s left staring at the opaque glass of it when the panels come together. 

It’s not that John didn’t know. He did. He just never guessed that it would be like this, that it would hurt to see Rodney choose Jennifer. Even though there’s really no choice to be made. John has never given any of them an option other than this. And even though he tells himself it’s impossible in a thousand different ways, even though he knows it won’t happen, some stupid, terribly hopeful part of him thought _maybe_ , _just maybe_ when they spent time together. 

Standing out in the corridor, John tells himself _no_ , _of course not, don’t be an idiot_ for the thousandth time, repeats it over and over as he curls his fingers around the DVD case and turns away from the door. Walking slowly, he heads for the East Pier; it’s a mild night out. 

 **Two**   


John remembers the cold, smooth stretch of the car door, metal blessedly cool against the slick, hot skin at the small of his back. He remembers his shirt riding up, sweat-damp cotton inching above his waistline, rucked up by a broad hand slipping between fabric and skin, stroking, brushing rough knuckles teasingly along the trail of hair running down his stomach, under the waistband of his jeans, pressing into the button of his fly. 

The rough edge of the door handle was pressed uncomfortably into the back of his thighs, but when his legs were spread around the knee that pushed up between them, when a hard tug at his belt loops had him shifting his hips into blessedly rough friction, he just couldn’t care about the way the handle was nipping at him. 

There were lights before that, he thinks, a blue-green-pink splash of color and the freeze-frame flash of strobe lighting that meant a club. They’d gone out he remembers, celebrating the end to their quarantine in San Francisco Bay. There was dancing: Jennifer was there, Amelia and Ronon, Teyla between them, all of them beautiful. There was Rodney, watching Keller on the dance floor like he didn’t quite believe she was real. 

John watched Rodney, his face, still-frames of adoration snapped by the strobe light. 

Neither of them liked to dance; Rodney still went when Jennifer asked him to. He was unsure and clumsy in the pounding crowd, too self-conscious under Jennifer’s eyes to enjoy himself. He was trying though, painfully hard. And the effort he was putting into being happy was why John started drinking, why he knocked back enough shots to let him pretend, too. 

It's all make-believe from then. There are vague impressions, ghost sensations of hands on him, a man’s hands, a man’s mouth slick against his, coarse with stubble. A man’s voice, rough in his ear, “My place?” whispered low into the shell of it. 

It had felt good to have that - viciously, gloriously reckless. 

Even through the blur of alcohol, and despite the disturbing way the night was twisting around him, John still remembers the look of utter shock and hurt on his face when Rodney had tumbled out of the club with Jennifer, Ronon behind him, arm-in-arm with Teyla, when they’d seen him in the parking lot opposite the exit. The disbelief on Rodney’s face, the sudden, sharp edge of his surprise was cutting even from across the street. His shoulders had gone tight, mouth slack and slanted down. 

John was looking right at him, spread out against the car door, another man’s hands still on him, a mouth sucking bruises into the curve of his neck. He had looked and Rodney and felt electrified, fiercely proud and fiercely shamed, the mix of emotion flushing his cheeks, twisting hot and low in his stomach. 

Rodney had shrugged Jennifer away, moving purposefully towards John (Jennifer’s eyebrows were arched up, John thinks, shocked). Rodney had tilted up his chin and started moving purposefully over the road, mouth twisted harshly down, lips pressed into a thin white edge. It was only then that John slipped away from the other man – he doesn’t recall the face, or the name, doesn’t know if he ever knew either. 

There had been words then. John knows Rodney was shouting, hands waving in hard, juddering motions. He recalls Teyla’s hand curling warm and gentle around his wrist, tugging; the challenging curve of Ronon’s eyebrow, the jangle of Amelia’s car keys, Jennifer’s voice above Rodney’s, but doesn’t know how any of those things fit together. 

He remembers Rodney’s hands though, fastening John’s seatbelt, pressing his shoulders back into the car seat when John had slumped to the side, rested his face on the jut of Rodney’s shoulder. And later, holding a glass of water to his lips, the feel of his fingers stroking through John’s hair. John remembers speaking, but not what he said, Rodney’s thumb over his mouth, hushing him.  

John’s alone but for a headache when he wakes up. Turning over in the bed, he feels the muscle at the top of his thigh pull, an ache like a bruise where the car door handle had pressed against him. 

On the bedside table is a bottle of aspirin and a handwritten note in Rodney’s angular script, scrawled over the hotel’s breakfast menu. 

 _You’re an idiot,_ it says. 

 **Three**   


It takes two and a half days and Ronon standing close at his back for John to knock on Rodney’s door and actually wait long enough for him to answer it. In the end it’s Teyla who opens it anyway, smiling encouragingly at John and raising one expectant eyebrow at Rodney before slipping away to her own room along the hall. Ronon shoves John gently over the threshold, muttering “talk” at his back like a threat. 

He leans expectantly against the wall by the elevator until John swallows around the panic in this throat and manages to push a quiet “hey” out. His throat is suddenly and desperately dry.   

“Hi,” Rodney says, overly bright. He looks wild-eyed, cornered. He steps back to wave wildly between John and the open door.  “You should come in,” he says, blustering like he does when he’s unsure of himself. 

John nods once, and moves further into the room.   

The door drifts shut behind him with a soft _click_ that makes John’s pulse jump. The room is a mirror of John’s own across the corridor, but it’s very clearly Rodney’s – John counts three open laptops amid the run and tangle of cable and wiring on the floor, another two closed and stacked on top of each other by the television. There are dirty cups lined up along the dresser and damp towel half-draped over the back of an armchair. 

John’s fascinated by the fold of the terry cloth, the slight damp spreading dark through the fabric of the upholstery; it’s easier to look at it and think _that’ll leave a mark_ than it is to look at Rodney and think _this might leave marks too._  

Neither of them say anything; Rodney crosses the room and pulls the mess of his bed sheets flat with a flick of his wrist, fiddling, pours himself a glass of water that he sets down right away. The whir and quiet beep of the laptops are the loudest sounds in the room. John can feel the weight of Rodney’s confused, speculative gaze on the line of his shoulders, the awkward way he’s standing in the middle of the room, looking marooned. 

John breathes a little quicker when Rodney comes to stand against the dresser opposite the bed, crossing his arms and leaning against it with a sigh. 

 “It’s true you know,” Rodney murmurs, quietly, “you’re an idiot.” Rodney’s not looking at him anymore; his head is tipped to one side and he’s gazing out of the window overlooking San Francisco. “For not telling me,” Rodney shifts against the dresser, pulls the fold of his arms tighter. “For being so damn reckless with someone you don’t even know.” Rodney’s eyes land on John as he speaks, quietly furious, and John feels himself start to color at the memory of what he’d been doing, the fact that even now he can’t picture the man’s face. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, his own eyes determinedly fixed on Rodney’s, “I know.” _I know it was stupid, I know I shouldn’t have done it. I know what could have happened._ _I know._  

John doesn’t say any of that, but Rodney seems to hear it anyway; he nods slightly, frown creasing his brow. He takes a step closer to John and asks, angrily, “Why didn’t you say something?” 

John knew this was a question Rodney would ask, had thought about some of the things he might try and say to explain something that he still doesn’t really understand himself. Only now he’s here, facing up to the hurt projecting palpably from Rodney, he can’t bring himself to stutter out more than a rough, “I don’t really, uh...” 

Rodney takes another step forward at this, uncrossing his arms and gesturing with one hand between him and John. “I don’t care, John,” he says, then, “well I mean I do, obviously about...” 

 _About you_ , he says, silently, flicking his fingers over at John “... but not. Not about that.” Rodney looks at John reproachfully, the loosened line of his mouth saying _didn’t you know that?_  

John shakes his head. “No,” he says, clears his throat.  “I know you wouldn’t.”

 

“Then why?” 

 _Because it’s not just that_ , John thinks, _it’s you. It’s more than it should be, more than I know what to do with._ He can’t say that though, not when he can see the handle of Keller’s hairbrush behind the clock on the nightstand. “Rodney – “ he begins, with no real idea of what comes after that. 

“No,” Rodney snaps, stepping right up to John now, too close; John shuffles back, pulls himself closer together. “Why, John?”               

                                                     

With Rodney so close, with his hurt clear in the single syllable of John’s name, John can’t _not_ answer. He swallows, rubs a hand through his hair roughly like it might somehow make the words fall out better than they usually do. “It was... it’s hard,” he mutters, flicking his eyes up to Rodney’s and quickly away again, “complicated.” He forces himself to meet Rodney’s eyes as he adds, low and apologetic, “And I thought maybe...” 

“Maybe?” Rodney prompts, just as quiet. 

“Maybe you already figured it out.” 

Rodney’s face goes tight at that. “Like everybody else you mean?” he asks, mouth twisting bitterly. “Yeah. That’s what Jennifer said,” he adds under his breath. 

“Jennifer?” John asks, skin pricking up with sudden gooseflesh, because apparently _everybody else knows,_ and Christ, what does that even mean?  

Rodney just shakes his head, shakes John’s question away like it doesn’t matter what anyone else knows. “You should have _told me_ , John.” 

“Couldn’t,” John says, shaking his head. 

“Tell me now, then,” Rodney murmurs, voice gone soft and pleading. 

“Can’t,” John says, cutting his eyes between the hairbrush handle and Rodney to remind himself that _can’t_ is true, _can’t_ is better. 

“John – “ 

“I _can’t_ , Rodney.” 

“Please?” Rodney uses that word and John’s head jerks up.  Please isn’t something Rodney asks lightly. _Please_ is only for the most desperate of requests, the most reckless. They’re looking right at each other now and John feels his stomach twist up. They both know what his answer will be. “Why?” Rodney asks, “Why not?”

“Because it’s not – it’s complicated,” John says trying to communicate _I can’t, I’m sorry_ without having to say more than he already has. 

“I won’t tell. You know that,” Rodney says again, emphatic, hands twitching now, like he’s one step away from taking John by the shoulders and just shaking the words out of him. 

“I do,” John says. 

“So?” Rodney’s looking at him, all wide and hurt blue eyes – it’s exactly like he looks when John is about to do something that will end with him dead and they both know it.   

John shakes his head tightly, bites his lip then bites out a hard “Look, not yet,” before he’s really thought about what he’s saying. It’s just that he finds himself wanting to make a compromise, and _no_ comes out _not yet_. 

Rodney looks about ready to shout; his chin goes up, challenging. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I’ll tell you. I _will_ ,” John says, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than Rodney. “Just... not yet.” John feels nauseous when he’s finished, and he thinks he might be shaking a little at the promise he’s just made. 

Rodney looks at him, and it feels like he’s seeing right through John already. “Okay,” he says, eventually. 

 **Four**  

John’s new quarters are a way too big for one person. He doesn’t have nearly enough furniture or belongings to fill all the space he’s been allocated; the bed is slightly larger than a standard single back on Earth, and the windows (a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall bank of them, and easily the best thing about the new living layout) look out on the sunset rather than the sunrise. 

He’s still not used to the purple and green that seeps into the more familiar red-bronze-gold of sun downs on this new planet, the safest one they could find for now. 

John’s tried telling Woolsey that he doesn’t _need_ all the space, that he didn’t actually _want_ to move in the first place but Woolsey’s on an organisational kick of late, and this is apparently the solution to whatever problem John’s quarters is part of. 

Rodney hadn’t wanted to move either. His old rooms were a good fit for him; enough space for his things, enough power points for his laptops and close enough to a transporter that he could sleep fifteen minutes longer then everyone else in his team and still make it to briefings (mostly) on time. There was the bathtub, too – if he’d been able to physically move it, he would have, John’s sure of it. 

 Jennifer hadn’t moved at all. She didn’t come back to Pegasus when Atlantis did, and while it was Rodney’s decision to come back, while he’d made the choice to leave her, John knows he gets lonely sometimes. All that new space he has doesn’t help lessen the feeling.   

It’s been over three months, and John’s seen more of Rodney in that time than he has for almost a year.   

Which is why the chime on John’s door rings (the sound echoes), he’s not surprised to see Rodney on the other side of it. 

What does surprise him is the look on Rodney’s face. Determined, chin tilted up, eyes sharp-focussed and intent on John’s face. There’s an intensity about him, a direct energy John recognises from other, more dangerous places, and certainly nothing he’s felt directed at himselfbefore. 

There’s anticipation there, too, a spark waiting to flare to light, like when Rodney’s trying to apply a theory for the first time and can’t wait to be given proof by the outcome. 

From the way Rodney’s eyes trace slowly up the line of his neck to his mouth, then up to his eyes, John can guess what he’s here to test. 

John steps back from the door on reflex, away from Rodney, clearing his throat in an effort to dislodge the words he’s going to need for the conversation Rodney wants to have. He’s trying to get distance, perspective; he’s not sure he can concentrate otherwise, not sure he can say what he still has to. 

Only Rodney matches him, step-for-step and doesn’t let John go anywhere. 

When John draws in a shaking breath to say something – _stop, can’t, not ready_  - Rodney reaches out and gently grasps John’s right wrist. The slight pressure of his fingers is enough to anchor John where he stands. “Don’t, John,” Rodney murmurs. His voice is as soft as his eyes, and just as unbearable. 

“I – what are you...” John begins, trailing off when Rodney moves in closer still.   

“Shh,” Rodney says, holding the fingers of his free hand up to John’s lips, pressing them down. “You don’t get to talk. You never make any sense. And _I’m_ as stupid as you for actually listening to anything you say. So I’ve decided we’re doing this my way.” 

John opens his mouth to ask _what are you talking about? What exactly is that we’re doing your way?_ To say _let go, don’t let go_. 

None of it actually gets out, though, because Rodney takes advantage of John’s indrawn breath to lean in and press his mouth awkwardly, messily, to John’s. 

Later, John will have to admit to himself that for that first moment, he didn’t actually understand what was happening. Rodney’s mouth against his didn’t make any sense; the heat and tentative pressure was something he knew from other kisses, other people, but not from Rodney. So he’d stood there, lips shock-slack and unresponsive until Rodney’s hands moved, stroked up one arm to the curve of his shoulder, the other smoothing over his jaw to the nape of his neck, pulled him closer to deepen the contact. It was then that John finally understood what Rodney was doing, what he’d been talking about. Only he still hadn’t done anything himself, was still just standing there while Rodney kissed him. 

Kissed him. 

 _Jesus,_ John had thinks, before surging forward, hands firm on Rodney’s waist, letting his mouth move against the push of Rodney’s, his tongue curling over the slant of his lips. Rodney’s fingers tighten in the hair at John’s nape when John kisses back, when he pushes back against Rodney’s body so that they’re pressing themselves into each other, trying to outdo each other to get as close as possible. 

There’s a hitch in Rodney’s breath when John’s fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, and John takes advantage of it to sweep his tongue out and against Rodney’s. The kiss is slow, and oddly tentative for something that’s deep and heated too. When Rodney tries to step back after long, slow-moving minutes, tries to break off, John makes a sound in the back of his throat and cups Rodney’s face to being him back in to another press of mouth to mouth; breaking and returning, they kiss – just kiss – like John hasn’t kissed anyone for years, like he thought about sometimes when he couldn’t catch his daydreams before they floated off out of his control. 

When they finally step away, they’re both breathless. Rodney’s eyes flick up from John’s mouth to his eyes, and then he’s smiling, giggling, and John can’t help but join in with him. 

“Idiots,” Rodney manages between the huffs of his laughter, pulling John’s head down to his like Teyla does, “we’re idiots.” 

“Yeah,” John says. It’s only as he starts to catch his breath that he realizes the door has been open the whole time. Before he can say anything, Rodney catches his mouth again, a chaste press this time. 

“Now will you tell me?” Rodney whispers into the curve of John’s lower lip, eyes serious behind the brightness in them. 

“Yes,” John says, and reaches out to close the door.

 

 

 


End file.
